


Vexing

by OmniGamer



Series: Daedric Captivation [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal, Blow Jobs, Bondage, F/M, Femdom, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Porn With Plot, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9256532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmniGamer/pseuds/OmniGamer
Summary: Rowan had denied the Demon of knowledge... twice. That doesn't happen. Ever.Hermaeus Mora won't let there be a third time, but Mora might not be the only one vying for the Dragonborn's attention and soul.





	1. The Dragonborn

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh, filling those tags in was almost worse than actually writing this thing...  
> My first attempt at writing NSFW... don't know how it turned out, but it's a hella longer than what I thought I was going to write and somehow ended up kinda with a plot. Actual NSFW starts at chapter 2, for those that just want to jump to the action.  
>   
> Hey guys, thought I'd post this little tidbit here... ummm.... Anyone uncomfortable reading rape/non-con who just came so they could read 'Frustrating' I wrote enough background info into that story so you don't actually have to read this one to understand what is going on... just thought I'd let you guys know.

_ Vexing. Vexing. So very vexing.  _ No mortal could deny him. No mortal could resist the temptation of his limitless knowledge. Yet there was one who did. Who continued to do so, and it was all very...  _ vexing _ .

"Hermaeus Mora, we humble mortals beseech your infinite wisdom." A voice drew the Daedric Prince's many eyes. Another soul so willing, so compliant, but  _ not  _ the one he wanted.

_ That one, _ his Daedric sibling Mephala had laid equal claim to. Albeit, he knew the Dragonborn had only won her Ebony Blade through an act of sheer defiance.

Both of the Princes knew it.

Mephala had wanted the Nord to sacrifice those that trusted the mortal - those that thought the Dragonborn could do no harm to. She wanted to twist the mortal to her darker whims, and yet the Nord remained innocent of such crime. After all, _ mortal law does not touch the already deceased. _

Hermaeus Mora was delighted to watch the mortal outwit his sibling; how the mortal warped the meaning of her words and summoned spirits to fall to the cursed blade instead of the living flesh his sister hoped to have sacrificed.

It had to be out of spite, simply by how much effort the shield-wielding warrior had to put into even using the Dead Thrall spell, let alone casting it ten consecutive times until the Daedric artifact had reached its full potential. The hours toiling over a hot forge enchanting magical armor, the long cold journey to the Winterhold College for a set of conjuration robes, not to mention the ridiculous amount of time searching for conjuration rings and amulets that would boost the required skill.

_ And all to what end? _ For the blade to sit in a chest, buried beneath other relics in the Dragonborn's possession. Much like his own Oghma Infinium, where it remained...  _ unread _ , completely out of an  _ unjust, _ bitter resentment.

Only pride kept either Prince from seeking vengeance.

The mortal has been in Apocrypha - Hermaeus Mora's own realm - and yet the Nord remained unimpressed. Infinite knowledge at the mortal's fingertips,  _ if the Dragonborn would just...  _

The Daedric Prince had no claim on the Nord's soul, merely on the weak flesh that housed the defiant mortal. No, that claim fell to Sovngarde, especially after having proved his valor by slaying Alduin. If Hermaeus Mora wanted complete claim over the Nord, he would have to do something more drastic.

"My Lord?" Again the voice pleaded to him, begging for his attention.

"What is it that you seek?" He spoke with a slow drawl, openly displaying his general disinterest in his worshipers' coming request.

"Oh, gracious Lord. One of our own has become bedridden, and another has already begun to show similar symptoms. We only ask to know how to stave off the coming epidemic."

"And what is my payment for any service offered you?"

"We have prepared a willing sacrifice. Surely the lass would appease you?"

The image of a young doe-eyed Imperial trickled into the Daedric Prince's realm - himself not bothering to actually leave his plane to communicate with his followers.

"I have no need for the woman..." Hermaeus Mora paused. Suddenly, a wild idea tossed through his mind. "There is, however, one that I desire."

This time, it was the mortal's turn to hesitate. "My Lord, who is it that has taken your attention?"

Again, Hermaeus Mora's thoughts turned to the Nord who had spurned him. "The Dragonborn..."

* * *

Rowan groaned and leaned his head against the inn's wooden bar top, pulling his half-drunk ale closer.

The rough Nordic barkeep shook his head. "You better not be trying to hide from Lydia again."

The forlorn Nord squinted up at the stocky man, a thin smile on his face. "Is it that obvious?"

Orgnar shrugged, then continued wiping the tankard in his hand. "If all you were wanting was a drink, you would've done it at the Bannered Mare. No need to travel half a day for the swill here."

"Maybe I just prefer the atmosphere," the Dragonborn muttered into his drink, taking a quick swig of the golden comfort.

The barkeep pointedly ignored Rowan's comment.

The Sleeping Giant was a small tavern along a road rarely traveled and barely visited by the locals. The food was survivable - Orgnar should know he makes it himself - and the alcohol was watered down just enough to keep costs low. At best, Rowan was being sarcastic.

"What did you do this time?" he asked, setting the mug under the bar and grabbing another.

"What do mean, 'what did I do'?"

"If it was something Lydia did, you would've been complaining about it by now."

Rowan sat up and looked at the barkeep skeptically. "I need to stop confiding in you."

"Sure. Just make sure to pay your tab before you go." It wasn't the first time the Dragonborn threatened to take his business elsewhere, and Orgnar was used to Rowan's idle threats.

The Dragonborn scratched at the back of his head, his fingers catching his dark-brown hair tied back into a half-ponytail. "You're no fun."

"And  _ you're  _ an ass. What else is new?"

Rowan sighed, his head hitting the wooden surface with a heavy thud. "How do I ask her Orgnar?"

"About what?"

"About... You know..." The barkeep couldn't make out anything else as the Dragonborn rolled his head and began mumbling into the bartop. The pathetic man gave another sigh, his wide shoulders sagging with his expelled breath.

Catching a glimpse of an amulet of Mara that hung around Rowan's neck, Orgnar smirked. _ If the man could slay the World Eater, then he sure as Oblivion could ask a woman to marry him. _ Orgnar set the nearly cleaned mug on the bartop. "You tell her about that place you're building up at Heljarchen yet?"

Rowan looked up with his piercing ice-blue eyes. The words he was about to share, dying on his lips as the tavern door opened.

A woman appeared. Imperial, with large chestnut eyes, olive complexion, and nearly black hair. Fortunately for the men, she wasn't the woman in question.

"What can I help you with?" the barkeep asked the newcomer.

The stranger's voice was small, fragile almost. "I-I'm looking for someone." She held herself in a way that made her seem lost, her weight shifting from one foot to the other.

"Oh? You're a long way from Solitude then." Orgnar wasn't being rude to the Imperial, quite the opposite. The capital was a much better place to look for someone, rather than a backwater place like Riverwood.  _ Especially if one wanted to find another Imperial in this war-torn age. _

"N-n-no actually. I was told _ he _ frequents this area."

"Might I ask who then?"

Meekly, she nodded. "The Dragonborn."

Rowan spluttered on his drink and drew himself smaller, trying to avoid the petite woman's attention. The glance and quick gesture he gave Orgnar was clear enough:  _ 'I'm not here.' _

Orgnar almost felt sorry for the man, Rowan's prowess had been overly exaggerated since Alduin's defeat. It seemed like every poor sop wanted the Dragonborn's help with some task or another, while the man himself just wanted to settle peacefully away from it all.

"Sorry, can't help you, Miss. Haven't seen him 'round here in awhile."

She seemingly deflated at his words, but there was a glint of something else in her eyes when she caught sight of Rowan at the bar. "I s-s-see. I'll try elsewhere." With a quick nod, she left. The door closed with her departure, buffeting the tavern with cold air before the central firepit could chase it away.

"I don't know who she is, but she recognized you," Orgnar felt obligated to mention.

Rowan toyed with the fraying edge of his blue tunic. "So much for not wearing my usual armor."

Orgnar hummed a clipped agreement. "You going to see what she wants?"

The Dragonborn slid a hand down his face and glanced over his shoulder towards where the woman had left. "She looked like a kicked puppy, didn't she?"

"I'd say so."

"Can't hurt to at least hear her out." With a scrape of the tall stool, Rowan pushed away from the bar. "You still have my old gear around here?"

"Of course, it's in the cellar where you left it. Just be careful out there. Lydia'll have my head if I let something happen to you without her say so."

"What trouble could I possibly get into?"

Orgnar let out a sharp bark of laughter. "What trouble  _ don't _ you get into?"

Nervously biting at a thumbnail, the woman stood along the edge of the village.

Rowan stepped out from under the building's covered-patio. And, despite the pits and slashes along its battered contours, the black plates of his ebony armor still managed to shine brightly in the noonday sun. Resting on his hip was a dragon-bone sword and strapped to his left arm was his ebony shield. The entirety of his equipment weighing significantly more than the simple blue tunic and linen slacks he wore earlier. In a way, the added weight was a familiar comfort.

"So," he started.

The woman jumped slightly at his utterance.

"You're still here."

"Uh, yes. I just didn't know what to do... It's just..." She paused, her fingers curling and uncurling at her sides. "Are  _ you _ the Dragonborn?"

"I'd rather not be called that... sounds pretentious," he was quick to point out with what he hoped was a soft smile. "Name's Rowan."

Rowan thought he saw the woman blush, but with the cold already giving her a rosy complexion, it was hard to tell.

"If you don't mind me asking, what gave me away? I've made a point of blending in."

"A...  _ friend _ knew your face, what you looked like. I-I-I followed rumors until I found myself here..."

"Well, you've come all this way to find me; the least I can do is hear you out."

She looked relieved as she pushed a stray hair back behind her ear. "Oh, thank-you. Thank-you."

Rowan held up a hand, instantly quelling some of her excitement. "I said I'll hear you out. I tend to not do these types of things anymore, so... depending on what sort of help you're wanting... I might have to say no."

The woman chewed on her bottom lip, then nodded. "It's- it's my brother, he went to the Angarvunde ruins for his research. I told him not to go there alone, and now he's missing." A quiet sob escaped her lips.

"You sure? Maybe he got side-tracked and forgot to tell you?"

This time she adamantly shook her head, wiping her eyes with a sleeve. "That's what I thought at first, but after the second week, I started getting worried... After the third, I came looking for you."

Rowan sighed already knowing what he was about to tell the desperate woman, wasn't good news. "If he went east to Angarvunde and it's been…" He gestured for her to fill in the blank for him.

"Four weeks yesterday," she sniffed.

"Four weeks, I'm afraid there might not be anything I can do." The Dragonborn hesitated, trying to find a more delicate way to put it. "Your brother might not be... able to come back."

"I-I realize that might be the case, but I still want to know for sure. At least if you find his body I can make sure to give him a proper burial." Her eyes were puffy and red, though she tried to hide the tears that threatened to start falling again. "Please, you're the only one I can trust."

"So, if I find him, where do you want me to meet you? Here? Or-"

"Solitude would be preferred. It'll make it easier to send his remains back to Cyrodiil."

Rowan nodded. "I'll see what I can do. I can't make any promises."

She smiled weakly. "That's all I ask."

****

Annoyed puffs of breath billowed from his horse's dark nose, and he shared the similar sentiment of being pulled away from the warm comforts of the town.

The chilly air bit through his heavy armor, and he pulled his fur cloak tighter in some vain attempt to ignore the cold.  _ It could be worse _ , he reminded himself yet again. The woman could have sought out his help in the  _ middle  _ of winter when the mountains were virtually impassable.

The road was silent - save for the distant clap of an avalanche and the low rumbling that followed briefly after.

He looked back behind him where the crumbled ruins of Helgen once stood, just barely visible amid the snow drifts. Absentmindedly, Rowan touched his throat. He didn't have good memories of the place: not now, not when he was about to be beheaded, and not even as a child where he grew up within the supposed safety of its walls.

The snap of a twig pulled Rowan away from his thoughts. He scanned the tree line, his eyes hunting for any potential threat. The Dragonborn was so distracted, he barely registered the rock-slide happening in front.

His horse wasn't so easily distracted. Braying loudly, she reared, and despite his scrambling to calm the frightened mare, Rowan fell from the saddle. She didn't wait for him, bolting back down the path they had come.

A muted pain shot up his backside from where he landed on the cobblestone, and he hissed as he found his feet again.

Freshly fallen snow crunched underfoot as hooded figures slowly surrounded him.

Drawing his dragonbone blade, Rowan faced its razor-point towards his would-be attackers and grit his teeth in a snarl.

His first opponent shot out a stream of fire which Rowan blocked with his shield, the flames licking harmlessly over its black edges. Another joined in. This time, casting lightning.

He couldn't move as fast as he wanted and ended up catching some of the destruction spell. His muscles spasmed and Rowan emitted a quiet grunt as he stepped backward, trying to get a better angle to protect against the two casters. Things only got more difficult to manage when a third joined the fray. Ice rammed his shield, jostling his stance and making his fingers numb as they took the brunt of the vibrations.

_ He couldn't hold his defense forever. He had to take the offensive. _

The Dragonborn took a breath, letting the frigid air settle into his lungs. He dropped his shield and shouted.

"Fus Ro Dah!" The words ripped from his throat, taking on form as they left his mouth. A mighty gale charged forth, knocking the figures from where they stood. Rowan wouldn't let the opportunity slip away. He ran to his closest attacker, and plunged the blade downward, slicing deeply into flesh with a sickening squelch. On his withdrawal, he noted the lack of any blood on his sword and that a pile of ash had replaced the body.

That was when he turned his gaze and saw the familiar white glow to their eyes.  _ Undead _ . He raised his shield against a bout of flame as his eyes flitted back to the tree line. _ That must be where the Necromancer is hiding.  _ It would explain the snapping twig he heard earlier. It wouldn't have been hard for the mage to have cast invisibility on themselves when Rowan's attention was unintentionally drawn towards them.

He had been expecting the ice dart to slam into his shield from the staggered destruction mage, but he was ill prepared for the paralysis spell that knocked into him from behind. His joints seized and he couldn't move. Rowan started a countdown in his head.  _ One... two... three... _ He knew the spell only lasted ten seconds, fifteen at best - not that the knowledge made him feel any better as the undead swarm moved closer.

Rowan had just reached fourteen in his count when smaller, more delicate sounding footfalls came up behind him. Still under the influence of the spell, he couldn't turn his head to see who it was. But he didn't have to, to make a guess at who it was.

A voice whispered in his ear - soft and feminine, no doubt belonging to the Imperial woman from earlier. "I'm sorry. It was either you or me." Then there was a light touch to the back of his neck, followed by a searing pain that turned his world white.

****

When he finally broke consciousness, his head felt like it had been smashed several times with a hammer. The throbbing pain didn't lessen any when he finally decided to open his eyes to the surrounding darkness.

The world heaved with every breath, making him nauseous.

Rowan shook his head to try and clear his muddled thoughts, trying desperately to recall what had happened. At best, his thoughts were hazy, everything a blur. He must have fallen asleep at the Sleeping Giant with a particularly bad hangover, but when he tried to shift to a more comfortable position, he found he couldn't.

His arms remained stubbornly tied behind his back, and it was then that he realized he had been bound and gagged - the latter likely to stop him from using his Dragon Shouts. His wrists chafed where the rope sank into his flesh, and his mouth was absurdly dry from the fabric tied between his teeth. Wriggling against his binds did nothing more than tell him he was encased in a box of sorts, its sides close enough to touch with just minor stretching. He also quickly discovered he was at sea, the salty brine becoming more evident with every breath he took. Rowan fought down another urge to vomit, his stomach greatly unsettled by the way the ground continued to tilt and lurch beneath him.

Further struggles rewarded him with nothing, so he turned his focus to something else. Anything, that wasn't the shifting pitch and yaw of the ship.

Dozing proved to be his greatest distraction.

****

He next awoke bound to chair inside a cave - if the pungent earthy aroma was to be taken as any indication. Several burning braziers illuminated the cavern's high stone walls, and Rowan could barely make out the shapes of haphazardly placed bookshelves - all at varying levels of decay - decorating the space. Two rows of pews lay before him, each situated to view whatever lay behind him.

The Dragonborn craned his neck instantly regretting the fresh twang of pain in his skull.

Behind him sat the effigy of Hermaeus Mora, represented by a strange amalgamation of tentacles, eyes, and crab claws. A shudder ran up Rowan's spine. He had thought himself free from the Daedric Prince's interference, but it appeared he just got himself kidnapped by one of his cults.

Rowan tugged and twisted against his bindings, his actions interrupted as a single robed figure entered the chamber - the first of many to come.

Each of the following individuals trickled in as eerily quiet as the first, with only the subtle shuffling of their dark-green robes and the wooden creak of the pews to be heard.

The Dragonborn grimaced against their unsettling stares, and he wished someone would say something, anything to break the silence that had fallen on the congregation.

Answering Rowan's unspoken plea, a small procession entered. The three individuals came to a halt in front of the Dragonborn, its leader holding a suspicious black book tightly.

The trio turned to the awaiting crowd.

"Brethren, the day has come for our salvation." All heads focused on the single speaker. The man's voice was deep and cracked with age. "Hermaeus Mora has promised a solution to the blight that has stricken our families and homes should we offer up this _ faithless  _ to his realm." The words were spat out like venom, and an uncomfortable murmur passed through the watching crowd. The man clutched at the black book tighter before continuing his speech. "I understand your concerns. What right does this wretched man have to grace our Lord's domain? To seek out the greater knowledge for all eternity?" Again there was a ripple of disturbance among the audience, and again the man waited for the hall to quiet. "But I can assure you, for it is the will of our Lord that we send this heathen to his side, so that Hermaeus Mora may punish him personally."

This time the hall was silent, and Rowan squirmed uncomfortably.  _ This was getting real bad, real fast _ . The Dragonborn tugged once more against his bonds, finding that the ones strapping his ankles to the legs of the chair had been tied clumsily.

He eyed the two robed figures closing in on his sides and waited. Once they were close enough, Rowan moved.

The ropes around his legs snapped as he kicked the figure on his left. The individual closing in on his right had only moments to act before the Dragonborn rose to his feet and plowed the back of the chair into his would-be attacker's stomach. The robed figure curled inwards and collapsed to the stone floor, uttering a suppressed groan.

With a shake of his bound hands, the wooden chair clattered to the ground, allowing the Dragonborn to stand straight.

Amid the rising panic of the crowd, the cult leader seemed unperturbed. With a practiced ease, he raised his hand, and the crowd settled once more, the after-effects of the calming spell leaving a bluish tinge in the dusty air.

The Dragonborn watched with wary eyes, unsure of how to deal with the mage with his hands still bound and his shouts sealed. He wasn't given much time to ponder his predicament.

The mage acted first, flapping the Black Book open and holding its pages out towards Rowan.

Though the Dragonborn reacted almost immediately by shutting his eyes tightly, his response had been too slow. The words written on the pages seeped into his mind, burning bright images into his brain. Try as he might, thick tendrils reached out and wrapped around his limbs, pulling him once more into Apocrypha.   
  



	2. Hermaeus Mora

The Dragonborn was greeted by the sight of the begrudgingly familiar gloomy green world, and somewhere in the distance, he heard the snap of a book closing. The sound had a certain finality to it, and Rowan would have worried about it more, had he not turned his focus to how he was going to undo his bound hands.

Muttering angrily to himself, Rowan began a series of awkward motions to get his arms in front of him - his bulky armor proving to be the biggest detriment.

After what felt like a dislocated shoulder, Rowan had managed, and now that he could actually see his hands, dealing with the binding rope became that much simpler.

It had been a while since he had used the Flames spell, and even longer having used the fire spell without hurting himself. But, he could see no other way about it.  _ It wasn't as if he could just ask someone to untie him _ .

He sighed. Trying to focus, the Dragonborn curled his hands inwards towards the rope. Too much magic and he could end up frying himself, too little, and he wouldn't be burning through anything anytime soon. Taking a deep breath, he started, willing the magic into his palms. Tiny sparks began crackling, growing soon into a flicker as fire sprang up to life. He could feel the heat through the padded leather of his gauntlets, and he cringed when the dark brown leather started turning black.

But, despite the light singeing his gauntlets got, his efforts didn't go unrewarded. A few tugs of the burned rope and he was free.

Immediately, his freed hands began wrestling with the gag still lodged between his teeth, and moments later, that too had been removed. There was a sweet relief as he worked saliva back into his mouth.

Rowan patted himself down taking note of his current inventory: a few coins, and a healing potion.  _ Not a great start to any adventure. _

Now all he had to do was find an exit, the easiest one to access already having been sealed upon his arrival in Apocrypha - if the noise he had heard earlier, and the lack of a Black Book on his person meant what he thought.

Figuring it didn't matter which path he chose, the Dragonborn picked one and began to walk - mindful of the acidic dark green pools dotting the daedra's lair. His last experience with the realm granted him enough experience to know better than to dismiss them entirely. Books, stacked in precarious piles, rose in menacing spirals, and torn pages crinkled underfoot. Paper fluttered on the foul breeze that swept between the rows of black shelves that continually blocked his path.

More than once, Rowan was forced to backtrack, only to find his original route had changed again, the labyrinth of bookshelves shifting unseen behind him.

He caught fleeting shapes in the corner of his eyes and turned, expecting a confrontation with the Seekers and Lurkers that guarded and maintained Apocrypha in their master's sted. But, none of the twisted monsters came for him. Instead, they remained content to simply ignore him.

****

A misstep on a pile of discarded papers was all it took to send the Dragonborn falling into a nearby pit of green-black ooze. He braced himself for the inevitable burning sensation as the corrosive substance splashed his skin, but there was only a slight hiss and a mild tingle before the discomfort disappeared completely.

Confused at the slime's less than deadly properties, he caught himself staring into its threatening depths. A shudder of disgust passed through him as it sloshed around his waist, followed strangely enough by embarrassment. Not for falling into the pool, but akin to the feeling exposed, his thoughts and actions bared.

Something twitched near his left leg and it was enough to shake Rowan from his stupor.

As fast as he was able, he pulled himself from the sucking ooze, the unpleasant feeling disappearing once he was free of its lingering cling.

* * *

The Daedric Prince had no intention of killing the Dragonborn, doing so would currently be counterproductive. As such, he made the slime significantly less fatal than it would have been otherwise, creating an unintended side-effect even unbeknownst to Hermaeus Mora.

The Nord's slip allowed the Daedric Prince the barest glimpse into the mind of the man that had denied him twice. The faint rosy hue of embarrassment that painted the Nord's thoughts was especially delightful, and dare the Daedric Prince even say...  _ pleasurable _ ...

_How much more could he see if the mortal had been fully disrobed?_ _Thoughts left unmasked as ebony armor was peeled away to leave nothing but bare, sun-kissed skin between them?_ The Nord, breathless from resisting. His chest heaving, lungs working to draw in the air mortals' so desperately need. His once defiant face flush, and thoughts - _oh so deliciously rosy... What would it be like to plunge into the depths of that body? To pry into the mortal's soul?_ Mora hoped for another chance - if only to find an answer to the questions that set his interest alight.

But, _ for how long could he keep him champion here?  _ After all, the mortal wasn't exclusively his...  _ At least, not yet _ . There would be others looking for him.

Hermaeus Mora could hide the mortal away. Hide him away from Sovngarde's watchful eyes, and keep his champion's soul for all eternity within the depths of his realm.

_ That could work, nay that would work.  _ How the mortal would anguish at being denied its lustrous halls of drinking and merriment. Perhaps that could be the revenge the Daedric Prince sought for the mortal's offense. The Daedric Prince just needed time, and until then he'd continue to warn his creatures away from the Nord - the last thing he needed was the mortal's death.  _ And if the Nord died fighting? _ No doubt Sovngarde would know and take Hermaeus Mora's prize away.

* * *

Rowan shook out his arms, flinging the remnants of his misadventure about. The slick, warm substance had soaked into his underclothes, and he thought momentarily of stripping off his armor to remove the uncomfortable garments. He quickly reconsidered with the constant presence of the Seekers drifting among the book stacks. They weren't aggressive at the moment, but who knew when that would change.

A pang of hunger reminded him of his current situation, and he settled with feeling gross and soggy, in favor of looking for a way out in relative armored safety.

****

Time seemed to stand still in this place, but Rowan's internal clock said it had already been a few hours.  _ A few hours trudging through this dreary landscape and no exit in sight _ . If anything, he felt like he had been traveling in circles, and with the scenery shifting every so often, he wouldn't even know if he was.

Occasionally, he thought he caught sight of the exit - a black book propped open on a lone pedestal - but he never seemed to be getting any nearer to it.

He looked up, his progress slowing as he came up to yet another dead-end. Mora was messing with him - that much the Dragonborn was certain of - but it didn't explain the daedra's continued absence. "Mora!" Rowan shouted with frustration at the sky, as if the amorphous daedra would suddenly reveal himself.

_ Nothing. _

Annoyed, the Dragonborn kicked at the bookshelf blocking his path, but instead of a satisfying thump, his plated boot fazed right through it.

Rowan stumbled, raising his arms to try and catch himself as he fell forward, but they also passed through the bookshelf. He fell amid a stack of books, causing the ancient works to scatter.

A Seeker looked up, irritated at the sudden mess, and began clicking at him angrily. Strangely, it displayed no further aggression. It looked like it was waiting impatiently for the Dragonborn to move, its four arms remaining folded in front of it.

_ Well, who was he to argue with the floating abomination?  _ Rowan pulled himself to his feet and walked further into the area he had fallen across.

The creature bustled past him as he moved away, and begun restacking the books he carelessly knocked over. As the thing worked, it offered no inclination towards the Dragonborn's continued presence, and Rowan wasn't sure on how to react. So instead, Rowan decided to similarly ignore the sickly green tentacle aberration, turning to inspect the new area he found himself in.

He was in a ring of more of the sinister bookcases, a single exit on its opposite side. The gap between the shelves led into a shifting worm-like tunnel on the room's opposite side, and occasionally, Rowan could catch glimpses of the realm's exit. The bone white pedestal taunted him from beyond the circle of bookshelves.

_ So close now. _ So close to putting this whole ordeal behind him. Rowan picked up his pace. The constantly contorting tunnel doing little to slow him down.

The Dragonborn was quick to notice the subtleties. The way everything was perched on a single fragile point, suspended far above the inky black pools of acid. The way the black lattice floor curled up along its edges, and the way the white pedestal adorned its center like a flower's pistol. His gait slowed, his suspicions heightened. Not one Lurker or Seeker had tried to interfere, and, short of the illusionary wall, there had been no puzzle, not even a switch. It was too easy. It was far too easy, and it felt like a trap.

As if sensing his hesitation, the world shifted, the platform in front of him shuddered and the oil-black lattice began closing around the pedestal.

_ No you don't.  _ Rowan ran and jumped, landing awkwardly on the sloping edge of the rising black lattice. Reflexively, his fingers shot out, wrapping around the smooth latticework and halting his sliding decent with a rough jerk. He let go, only when the black crisscrossing grid came to a stop, trapping him and the pedestal within its metal confines. But the Dragonborn didn't care, he had made it to the exit, the worst that could happen would be that he only completed chapter one of this Oblivion plane...  _ Right? _

It seemed that having to traipse through another section of the daedra's realm wasn't the worst thing that could happen. It wasn't even close.

Rowan looked down at the book laid open across the sickly white pedestal, an expression of frustration and disbelief twisting his once confident features. It was a black book alright, blackened by age and fire, and definitely not the Black Book he actually sought for escape. He had been tricked by the Daedric Prince of memory and knowledge.

_ Something he shouldn't have dismissed Mora being capable of so readily _ , he remorsed.

A deep chuckle reverberated high above. "Champion," the voice said, pulling each syllable to its limit.

"What do you want Mora?"

"As insolent as ever, my champion."

The platform shuddered and dropped about a foot and a half, causing Rowan to stumble. He caught the edge of the pedestal, stopping his brief decent, and glared up at the floating mass of eyes and tendrils that hovered closer.  _ If he didn't know any better, the damned giant eyeball looked pleased with itself. _

"So,  _ that _ why you sent your damned cultists after me? I'm insolent?"

"No."

"Then why?"

* * *

Hermaeus Mora couldn't answer why - not that he was willing to share with his captive mortal.

The Prince let the silence stretch out between them, turning it into something akin to a stubborn awkwardness - at least by mortal standards.

"There is no need for you to know." Hermaeus Mora replied flatly, satisfied with the answer he finally decided upon.

The Nord's face scrunched up in displeasure, obviously not as pleased with the answer his master had so graciously given him. "No need?!" The mortal had moved to the cage's edge, his armor-clad fingers curling around the slick metal bars. He looked furious. "I get kidnapped, dragged to Talos knows where, then dumped here,  _ again _ . You don't think I deserve an answer as to why?"

"You are deserving of little, Champion."

Defiant eyes stared up at the Daedric Prince. "So then what, Mora? You can't keep me here forever. You. Don't. Own. Me."

The mortal's words struck deep, tearing at the wound Hermaeus Mora had hoped to fix by bringing him here in the first place. "So. You. Think." The Daedric Prince's usual slow methodical pace was disrupted by the sudden rage that bubbled to the surface. Brought forth from a place he long thought buried.

The cage plummeted towards the acidic ocean below, its black bars peeling away.

His champion dipped below the inky surface and in that moment Hermaeus Mora could see into the mortal's thoughts with much more clarity than before.

_ Anger and frustration quickly melting away into panic and... pain. White hot flashes of agony... pain... searing. Hurt. Hurt. It hurts so much. _

Hermaeus Mora quickly knew what the latter meant and quickly eased up on the mucks' acidic quality. He had lost his temper, and in the process, he could have lost his champion to that moment of blindness.

An unfamiliar feeling of relief rose as his mortal breached the surface. Fortunately, the Nord's skin was just teased with the barest hint of red, and the inflicted color was already fading fast. But consequently, the Nord's thoughts were once more muted behind the sharp metallic tang of ebony armor.

_ If only the armor wasn't there... _

* * *

Black tendrils reached through the black liquid seeking out the mortal's warmth, and the thoughts hidden within.

Panting from the near-death experience, Rowan had managed to half-haul himself out of the sludge. The burning sensation that had played over his flesh, was now just barely a dull sting. His hands splayed out across scattered papers as he tried to find better purchase to leverage himself up and out.

It was as he was about to pull himself free of the goo, that something brushed by his hip and began encircling his waist. Rowan resisted its attempts to pull him back in, which only made the thing wrap itself tighter around his body. The snake-like appendage was joined by others, each a crawling black tendril that stretched past the encompassing black to grab at his form. They tugged at his arms, his legs, and one pulling ever so slightly around his neck - each trying to encourage the Dragonborn to return to the pool.

Rowan was having none of it, or at least thought as much. His grasp along the oily metal edge was weak at best, offering no real resistance to the thing trying to drag him back in. Still, he managed, somehow gaining inch by painful inch as clawed himself forward.

A tendril had managed to work its way under his armor, sending a shiver up his spine. Others worked with the leather belts and straps holding his plate armor together. He struggled, trying vainly to fight off the swarming mass as it pried away the ebony plates and slithered up beneath his underclothes to stroke at his skin - a particular tendril even going as far to give a nipple a teasing flick. "Mora you sick bas-" he attempted, the insult dying into a groan as a tendril slipped past his loincloth to grope at the sensitive flesh hidden there.

Gritting his teeth against the barest blush tinting his cheeks and the tips of his ears, Rowan made another valiant effort to extract himself, ignoring how interested the hovering eye appeared over his predicament.

Over the edge's lip he went, the tingling slime leaving wet green-black streaks across his body as he successfully pulled away from the tendrils' grasp.

But that was as far as he managed to get.

The thing seemed discontent to let him slip away so easily, and it wrapped around the closest available limb, yanking the Dragonborn off balance and back into the inky pool.

In a blind panic, he scrabbled with the edge, clinging to it for dear life as his head dipped briefly beneath the surface. In his alarm, Rowan accidentally knocked in a few of the endless pages that littered Apocrypha into the pool with him. A page floated for a few seconds before it began sinking into the oily substance. A soft hiss accompanied its disappearance.

A jolt. A pulsing thought that wasn't his. Rowan struggled against it, fighting against the sensations that suddenly seemed so real.

**_Light fading. The smell of roasted salmon. Doesn't the sunset look so pretty?_ **

The tendrils loosened their hold for but a second - as if they too had been struck by the sudden vision - only to coil tighter, trying to chase the fading apparition.

* * *

_ What was that? _

Hermaeus Mora thought he knew all contained within his realm. The pages had never revealed anything like that to him before. They were always limited to the words written directly on them regardless of their exposure to his acid.

_ No, this was something different.  _ Like his mortal could transcribe the very thoughts behind the written words.  _ Well, at least while the Nord had been surprised enough to not resist _ .

He would have to do rectify that.

The Prince renewed his stroking along his mortal's responsive skin; trying to re-evoke the blank mindspace the Nord had earlier in his embarrassment. More tendrils slowly dragged page after page into the surrounding depths, desperate to glean their hidden knowledge.

The Nord's body arched involuntarily at the touches and especially as another of the Prince's tendrils slipped in to part his cheeks, stroking lightly over the tight ring of muscle it found hidden there. The tendril, hesitant at first, pushed into the tight warmth as another snuck forwards to message his mortal's receptive length.

It seemed to get the reaction the Daedric Prince was hoping for as, for a moment, the mortal's thoughts grew unfocused, hazy, barely resisting the ones that didn't belong to it.

**_Candle's burnt out. Need another. So tired, have to finish by morning._ **

He wriggled deeper into the mortal's warmth, desperate to see everything, eager to learn everything he could from the new found discovery.

* * *

The Dragonborn's clothes were pulled over his resisting limbs, eventually leaving him naked and vulnerable, veiled only by the semi-transparent goo he was held captive in. Rowan struggled against his bindings as they stretched his limbs in opposite directions.

A black tendril wrapped around his neck, tightening until he saw white dots. He stopped moving and the tendril loosened in response, only to slide upwards to stroke the side of his face, leaving a sticky, glistening residue in its wake. It moved higher to stroke at the shell of his ear before settling along the base of his jaw to trace his bottom lip.

A mass pumped tentatively inside him, sliding slowly in then back out. Another moved for his cock, gently cradling his balls as it passed before snaking around the base of his length, giving the occasional soft squeeze.The tendrils seemed to be testing his reactions, repeating motions that sent warmth cascading through his worked body.

He squirmed against the touches, pulling at the bonds that held him spread eagle, only to have the coil around his neck tighten. He stilled, and it relaxed once more.  _ A warning _ , his mind supplied through the growing fervor.

Another serpentine appendage joined the first in his ass, scissoring him open as they wriggled independently, stretching his tender hole to accept more unwanted visitors. His fists clenched against the intrusion, and a third decided to join the writhing mass in his depths, content to press against his walls and caress his insides. He let out a soft grunt as it brushed up against a particularly sensitive spot, and for a moment he saw stars.

_ That  _ seemed to garner some interest.

Yanking his bound arms behind his back, the tendrils holding him twisted, and in the process, forced his head into the muck. A moment later, a tendril yanked his chin up so he could breathe, and he opened his mouth to voice his protests.

Rowan's accusations were swiftly cut off by a slimy appendage slipping inside and nearly choking him around its girth. He couldn't describe its taste, nor did he want to think about it long, choosing instead to shake his head to try and dislodge the unwanted guest - to no avail.

Meanwhile, the delicate bundle of nerves became a more prevalent presence in his mind as the tendrils worked into him in a continuous frenzy. The tendrils around his limbs held him diligently, ensuring that he took each stroke as intended - each time hitting  _ that _ spot with more precision. And each time Rowan couldn't help letting out a sound; a whine, a pathetic mewl, past the slimy gag as pleasure surged through his body and blanked his mind.

The Dragonborn tugged vainly against his bindings once more, despite the tightening limb around his throat. Another tendril returned to his swelling cock, alternating between curiously stroking its leaking tip and massaging its length. He bucked into its touch, his back arching, his toes curling.

_ So close now, so very close. _

His relief was short lived. Suddenly, everything tightened around him, the tendrils all squeezing him painfully tight as he came.

Rowan panted the best he could through his nose with the abrupt stillness following his release, unsure of what to make of the change. But, as the moment passed, the tendrils started moving again. This time pumping and stroking him more vigorously, all eager to get his limp member up again.

The strange thoughts had long since stopped coming.

****

_ Enough.  _ He thought against the tendrils rubbing his overly sensitized cock.  _ Enough. _ His body screamed at him, as the mass continued to work its way in and out of his ass, now expertly hitting that spot every time. Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes and the black tendril around his neck tenderly wiped them away, no longer caring if he struggled.  _ Not that he had the energy to try. _

_ He couldn't do this anymore. He just couldn't.  _ Despite having lost count of how many times he came, the decision wasn't up to him. He felt his mind slipping in the overstimulation.

Eventually, his abused body shuddered with yet another orgasm, and this time he mercifully disappeared into unconsciousness just as he was being rubbed back into full hardness.

* * *

Seekers and Lurkers alike, parted for the newcomer. Each bowing low for their Lord as he passed.

Long black-green robes dragged behind him, its ragged edges coiling like many tentacles. Green translucent skin peeked from beneath the robe's hem, and a hood cast a thick shadow across the Daedric Prince's face, hiding the multiple yellow-green eyes that crowned his forehead.

With barely a thought, the black tendrils pulled his unconscious champion from the pool and deposited the mortal into Hermaeus Mora's outstretched arms. The Nord's heavy weight barely caused the Prince's arms to dip - despite Hermaeus Mora's slender build.

A glint of gold and copper caught the Prince's eyes, and his gaze narrowed on the trinket tied around the mortal's throat. His mind gave glimpses of a Nordic woman, and his stomach turned against the sickeningly warm thoughts his mortal had for her. 

A tendril slipped around the amulet of Mara and tore it from his champion's neck, tossing it back to the pool where it quickly sputtered and sunk into the acidic depths.

The Daedric Prince cradled his champion, the interruption forgotten. A puff of breath against his loose paper-white hair caused the barest twinge of a smile to pull at his thin lips. A strange feeling swelled in his breast at knowing he had not killed the mortal in his arms.  _ Relief?  _ Regardless, his champion needed rest, some time to recover before continuing.

Perhaps he had overdone things, but he had not felt such things in a long time. Had not felt  _ anything _ in such a long time and those feelings lingered, strengthening in his adapted body.  _ A weakness? _ He needed more information.

He turned, and his world shifted with him, its spires of books and black oily metal reconstructing what he wanted. A home. Somewhere his mortal would feel safe as the Nord recovered.

"Hermaeus Mora…" A familiar voice tickled his ear, and his pace slowed. His grip on his champion tightened, as he came to face the intruder.

"Mephala." The Daedric Prince acknowledged, his hooded face locked into an expression of malcontent.

"It's been quite a while since I last saw you in your lesser form, brother," she teased with a smile stretched across black painted lips.

Leaning in, she dragged a clawed finger across his champion's torso, drawing a faint line through the slime still clinging to the naked body. "Does the mortal mean so much to you?"

"You're not welcome here." He nearly snarled, his patience waning due to his sibling's unannounced visit.

"Perhaps, but how else am I to fetch  _ my _ champion?"

His mind raced for a rebuttal. If Mephala wanted to take his champion, she could. Her shared claim on the mortal allowed as much. "Do as you will." He pushed past her, his mortal still clutched tightly. He wouldn't give up the Nord willingly.  _ Couldn't give up the Nord willingly _ , something deep inside him corrected.

Hermaeus Mora didn't turn to see Mephala's impish grin, nor did he turn to see her vanish in a cascading pile of scurrying black spiders. Her laugh echoing through his realm was enough to keep him moving.


	3. Mephala

Rowan bolted upright, his bare chest heaving as a cold sweat dampened his forehead and back. He threw back the furs that covered him and swung his legs out over the edge of the large bed. His feet rested comfortably against the smooth wood, and he took a second to regain control over his breathing.

_ Had it all been a dream? _

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as he yawned, catching the barest hint of a healing potion on his breath. The Dragonborn looked over to the nightstand and saw the half-empty bottle standing there.  _ It looked awfully like the one he had in his dream. _

The smell of venison stew drew his musing away, and he turned his focus instead to getting dressed before heading downstairs.

A simple green robe had been draped over the bed's footboard, and he looked it over with brief suspicion before finally slipping the garment on. It fit him loosely, such that when he cinched its belt, it still hung open around his chest. It wasn't his, that much was certain.

The nearby dresser where he kept old gear and various articles of clothing was suspiciously empty. He chuckled before announcing to the house, "Alright Lydia, I can guess you're mad at me, but where are my clothes?"

The house remained silent.

"Lydia?" he called again, checking the loose board under his bed where he hid his Thieves Guild Armor.  _ Empty as well _ . He turned to the large wooden chest that he stuffed full of dragon bones, scales, and Talos knows what else when he couldn't figure out where to put or sell them. Rowan lifted the lid and was surprised to see the Oghma Infinium sitting innocuously along the chest's otherwise barren bottom. After the dream he had, it disgusted him even more than usual. The Dragonborn slammed the lid closed without giving the book a second glance.

With no place left to search upstairs, save for Lydia's private room - which he was not about to trespass into again.  _ He had learned his lesson with that one.  _ He padded downstairs, the wooden stairs creaking under his weight. "You win Lydia. Just tell me where my clothes are and can I promise you-"

"Promise what?" Her voice cut him off, its tone laced with a frustrated bitterness.

Despite her small stature, the woman never ceased to intimidate him. And with her back to him, its effect was multiplied a hundredfold. She tapped the edge of the blackened pot she was tending with a wooden spoon - each clang ringing hollow in the small space. The fire popped an eerie green in the central fire pit and the pot that hung above it was strangely empty, regardless of the promise of food still hanging in the air.

She asked again, her voice taking on a deceptively sweet note as she turned to face him. "What can you promise me?"

Rowan slowed his steps, taking in the woman's peculiar dress. "You're not Lydia."

"How observant," the stranger mocked, taking a sudden interest in her nails as they darkened and morphed into sharp claws.

The Dragonborn scanned the room, searching for something within the tiny dwelling to defend himself with.

"You won't find anything," she said. "My brother made sure of that."

"Your brother?"

The stranger laughed. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

"Should I?"

"You should," she affirmed, her peculiarly dark eyes taking on a mischievous glint. "After all, you  _ are  _ my champion."

The Dragonborn knew he had heard the voice somewhere. The low sultry caress, trying to entice him to use the Ebony Blade towards the Daedra's means. "Mephala."

A smirk played across her black lips. "I would prefer 'my Lord', but you wouldn't bend to that, would you? Much too prideful."

His lip twitched as he bit back a retort. "Then your brother is..."

"Mora, as you so affectionately call him. Pity you intend it as an insult, I find the nickname rather endearing..."

Rowan tensed, the dream slowly spilling into reality. A blush crept into his ears as the memories from his previous bout of consciousness pulled to the forefront of his mind. His eyes darted down to the green fabric that clothed him, and a connection made itself known. His fist tightened around the robe, and had he anything else to clothe himself with, he'd have torn the green fabric from his body.

"I think I can help you get rid of that distasteful thing," Mephala teased, suddenly in front of him. She smoothed a hand over the silken garment then pushed.

He stumbled backward, his knees clipping a hard surface, and he began falling.

Falling. Falling. Falling.

****

His eyes snapped open. The feeling of soft furs beneath his head gave Rowan small reassurance.

"Have a nice dream?" questioned an all too familiar voice beside him.

"Since when did the Daedric Prince of Lies start messing with dreams."

"But aren't dreams are just lies that mortals tell themselves?" Dangerous black talons traced up his stomach and briefly circled around his heart before retreating back to the other side of the bed.

"What is this then?"

"Whatever you make of it."

Rowan grunted to himself, his eyes tracing the wood grain along the roof's structural beams. "Can you tell me if I'm still dreaming at least?"

"Wanting a straight answer. Who do you take me for?"

He turned away. "Nevermind."

Mephala sat up beside him, the straw and fur mattress barely disturbed by her weight shifting. A clawed hand stroked the side of his face, urging him to face her. "Don't be like that. It's so dull."

Rowan searched her whiteless eyes, his face lit by their ethereal red glow.

"Let me help you out of that robe." Her fingers slipped underneath the tied belt, and he offered no resistance as she untied the knot, nor did he flinch as another pair of arms worked the cloth over his hefty shoulders. He lay bared and unchallenging to the naked Daedra above him, her six arms working simultaneously to elicit some sort of response from him. She frowned, obviously not pleased with his obedience. "Where's your fire?"

"Does it matter?"

Mephala stopped her machinations to give him a flick on the nose. "Of course it does."

"How? I couldn't stop you even if I cared enough to try."

"True." Her face turned thoughtful. "Does being my brother's  _ whore _ bother you that much?"

A flicker of irritation crossed his expression, and it seemed to be enough of a reaction that Mephala grinned. Her smile just a little too wide, and her teeth just a little too sharp.

Her hands splayed out across his chest to run through the coarse hair that grew there. She leaned in to whisper in his ear, her supple breasts not going unnoticed as she pressed into him. "At least your Lydia's not here to see this. But, perhaps I could arrange something..."

_No!_

Something snapped inside Rowan, and he bucked up beneath Mephala, shaking her from her perch. In seconds, the Dragonborn was above her, his weight bearing down on the Daedra. "You will leave her out of this," he seethed, pressing his forearm against her throat.

If her breathing was hindered, it didn't show, nor did it affect her smug voice. "And here I was beginning to think Mora took all the fight out of you."

"Leave her alone," Rowan insisted.

"Only if you can keep me entertained."

Begrudgingly, he released his hold, allowing her to ease him back to the headboard. "And what do you consider entertaining?"

"You, for one."

He back bumped against the rough wood. "Lucky me," he replied flatly.

She chuckled at that. "Indeed. Your naivety is refreshing, to say the least."

"What do you-?" He leaned forward, or at least tried to. His words cut off by a realization that his back was firmly stuck. He turned and caught glimpses of thin silver strands against the dim lighting, and knowing Mephala's affinity with spiders, the web didn't come as a surprise.

"Be a good boy, and try to wriggle for me," she purred, grasping his manhood and giving his inner thigh a playful nip. "I do love live prey."

He arched under her touch, and given her prior instruction, he didn't resist the hiss that spilled out either.

Mephala hummed in approval as she licked a lazy stripe up the side of his cock, swirling her tongue around its tip before swallowing him down.

A guttural groan escaped unhindered, and he unashamedly bucked upward into her warmth as she drew away. A strong pair of slender hands dug into the meat of his parted thighs, halting any further movement he tried to make.

Rowan growled, and his calloused hands came up to run through her thick raven hair as blood rushed to fill his length. Claws reached out and pulled his hands away from her hair, and secured them above his own head. He tugged against the bindings, but his wrists were good and secure.

He had grown close, but he didn't dare say anything as she continued to bob up and down, her tongue doing some delicious things for him.

With a pop, Mephala released him, and a hand quickly tightened around his base to stop him from coming. Rowan stifled a moan, falling back into the sticky mass enveloping his back. With a free hand, she retrieved the robe's discarded silken belt and tied it firmly around his red swollen cock.  

"You're not getting off that easy." The Daedra smirked up at him and gave his cock one last swipe of her dexterous tongue.

Rowan grunted, his toes curling as she began mounting him, her hand lining up his cock with her velvet heat. She slid down his length, her warmth drawing him in painfully slow. He felt his body craving more of the tight friction as she took him in completely.

Mephala sat upon him like she sat upon a throne, still and stoic, reveling in the erotic discomfort she brought him. Her walls throbbed around him as she raised herself, then slammed back down. By the third time, he raised his hips to meet her downward thrust. She let out a small gasp, and he instantly regretted doing anything as her walls clamped down on his sensitive member.

His face flushed under the physical and mental strain, earning a smug roll of her hips around his girth. A string of incoherent curses left his mouth and his cock strained against its silken bondage.

"So," his voice was husky, his fingers coiling and uncoiling to distract himself when she refused to continue moving. "This your work?" Rowan gestured to the best of his abilities to their surroundings.

Mephala chuckled, laying her head on his chest. "In part... The actual structure is Mora's work. I just gave it a few homey touches." The building and furniture flickered for a moment, revealing black metal frames and paper clinging to their slick surfaces. Her mouth quirked into a sly grin. "Not to mention my illusions help me hide you from his sight, at least for a little while." She shifted, eliciting another moan from the Dragonborn pinned beneath her. A black claw reached up and tapped him lightly on the nose. "You have no idea the extent of the rivalry you stirred up between us."

"Rivalry? Then there are no hard feelings over your sword?"

This time, she laughed, the sound strangely genuine. "If I had 'hard feelings' you would be dead."

"Simple as that?"

She hummed slightly. "I was impressed. I hadn't realized my request of you had an alternative. And the effort you put into it... you could almost say there was a certain level of...  _ devotion _ behind your actions." Her fingers gently stroked his skin, and there was a possessiveness about the motion that hadn't been there before. "I shan't let my brother lay claim to you so easily."

"He's laid claim?"

Disgust twisted her earlier pleased expression. "Tried to, but Mora's found himself... distracted. I won't let him have a second chance." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she dragged sharp teeth over one of his nipples. "You're mine."

"I... nrggh... don't... belong to anyone," he ground out, words becoming difficult to form as the Daedra started moving again, her tight walls working around his pained length.

"I could give you anything... Anyone..." She nipped along his jawline, her vibrant red eyes settling in front of his ice-cold blue ones. Her voice, nothing more than a tickle. "I could make you a God."

"But we both... agh... know it would be a lie."

Her laugh was dark. Far darker than that type of sound should have been. "That's what I like about you, always so sharp. So clever. How about this instead? I'll free you from Mora's little realm, let you waltz back to your woman without fear of being dragged back here..."

"In exchange for what?" For a moment he tensed, his body growing rigid against her ministrations.

"Relax Champion. I shan't ask for your obedience, I know your price would be too steep for that. Instead, you'll refuse any advances from other Princes?"

"So I'll be yours exclusively?"

She purred, the sound a deep rumble in her chest. "I'd like that."

"You Daedra aren't known to be so upfront. What if I'm tricked into it?"

"Hmmm, you're right. You do have a habit of poking your nose where it doesn't belong." A clawed hand came up to stroke his face, its talons drawing blood across the aqua mark that was painted below and partially above his left eye. He flinched. The crimson line burned as she drew her hand away, growing until a fiery agony enveloped the side of his face. "This tattoo of yours, it'll warn you of the others' influence. In turn, should you persist in aiding them; I'll see it burn a hole through your head." She smiled sweetly despite her menacing words.

"That can't be the only thing you're after?" Rowan winced. The pain had eased to a dull ache. The damage done. Whatever her enchantment on it, it was likely irreversible by mortal means.

"You mortal's have such short lives. A few decades is hardly enough time to get to know one another..."

"No," he stated firmly, knowing full well what she was after.

She pouted, giving her face a look of conflicting innocence. "But I haven't even mentioned what I wanted yet."

"I won't jeopardize my seat in Sovngarde."

Mephala tsked dismissively. "Sovngarde. Does it mean so much to you?"

His lips drew into a thin line.

Eliciting a cracked groan from the Dragonborn, she sat up, pulling herself off of his still fully erect cock. He nearly keened at the loss of her tight heat, but he wasn't about to stoop to that level.

The Daedra eyed him carefully. "I could just leave you here. Leave you tied here like a delectable present for my brother to find."

He twisted and turned against his bindings. The stubborn headboard didn’t even budge despite his struggles. "You wouldn't."

"Mora has an infinite store of knowledge hidden away, and he's just found out he has been only reading half of it." She reached for his flagging erection, and stroked it back to full mast.

The familiar heat coiled in his gut, the burning want of release filling him, but he couldn't come, not with that damned belt wrapped like a vise around his cock. With a sharp intake of breath he thumped his head back against the wall, trying vainly to ignore her skillful touches. His body was betraying him, and a pathetic whine slipped past his guard.

"How long do you think you could be Mora's plaything? Because the way I see it, he's never going to let you go. He'll make it so you will never see your Hall of Valor."

A ball of dread dropped to the pit of his stomach, and despite Mephala's skill, his primal desires waned slightly. "And you would be any... different?" he choked out, angry with how his voice wavered for even a second.

"Of course," she grinned. "I'll see to it that you have a place in Sovngarde. That you can have all the drink and merriment your heart desires." Her hands moved to the belt, toying with it where the knot was tied around his length.

Rowan watched her with caution, his tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips. "What's the catch?"

"The catch? The catch, my Champion, is that should you have any doubt, even the barest glimmer, that you have tired of all Sovngarde has to offer you... then you are mine. Mine to do with as I please for all eternity." Her eyes glittered darkly, and for a moment those gleaming red orbs seemed to be the only things in existence.

He gulped despite himself, and seeing no other option, he turned away from those piercing eyes. "Fine."

Mephala grinned broadly, revealing her razor-like teeth. "Excellent," she said, a sharp claw slicing through the silk.

His body lurched, eager to indulge in the sudden relief, painting his stomach and thighs with generous swaths of white. He groaned, low and satisfied, sinking into an orgasmic bliss. He knew he shouldn't relax, not with Mephala still so near, but he couldn't help himself.

She smirked at him, and gave his cheek a light pat. Her voice was coy as she spoke. "We should do this again sometime." And in the next instant, the Daedra was gone. In her place, a Black Book clattered into his lap, its pages spilling open to reveal Apocrypha’s exit.

****

The Dragonborn blinked, his vision slowly coming back into focus. He sat up, his body stiff from lying against the stone slab set below him. Rolling his shoulders, Rowan realized he wasn't alone. His hand went to his sword and he discovered the Ebony Blade there instead of his dragonbone sword. Strangely, the katana didn't come as a surprise.

The hooded figure didn't look concerned and raised a finger to their lips, indicating him to be quiet. He slid off of the stone and despite his heavy armor, he landed with light feet onto the cavern's floor. The figure motioned for him to follow, and he did so hesitantly, his fingers never straying far from the blade at his side.

Slowly and quietly, the stranger led him through the twists and turns of the cave, stopping at the slightest hint of footsteps and murmur of voices. The pace was agonizing, but for once Rowan was willing to follow.

The subtle ashen light of daybreak hurt his eyes, as the grey expanse of Solstheim lay before him. Fortunately, he was not far from Raven Rock where he could catch a boat back to Skyrim. The stranger offered a shallow bow then retreated back inside. Rowan swore he heard a whispered "Praise Mephala," before the figure completely disappeared from sight.

He sighed, dreading how he was to explain himself to Lydia this time, and began trudging through the fallen ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite this initially being a oneshot, I just had to make a continuum. Catch Rowan in the next slightly more plot centered 'Frustrating'.


End file.
